Of No Allegiance
by dargy.ftw
Summary: The world hasn't changed much: it is ready to fall apart around humanity. But the games of power are out of control. We're on our own. As usual.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Counter-Strike, though I would really wish to. Alas, Valve owns this incredible game. Don't bother suing me for writing this piece of fanfiction; I'm poor and you'll probably only end up losing money. Kesenai, Headshot, and sYn belong to their respective authors. Everything else is mine.

" " – Dialogue  
' ' – Thoughts

**Counter-Strike: Of No Allegiance**

**Chapter 1: **

The _USS Essex_, a Wasp class amphibious assault ship, received news that at 1600 hours, a group of terrorists, 1337 Krew, were threatening to destroy several positions in Saudi Arabia, one of the few allies that America still had in the Middle East. The terrorist bombing threat was bad enough. Even worse, the positions contained WMD, weapons of mass destruction, of which belonged to the United States.

The United States' policy does not allow it to negotiate with terrorists. The situation was no different. Both the United States Army and Navy reacted, readying both Delta Force and DEVGRU, respectively. Neither, however, could get its counter-terrorist branch in position in time. The _Essex_ was the only ship close enough to send troops and prevent the bombing.

It immediately sent two CH-46 Sea Knights, both each manned by a squad of twelve seasoned Marines from the 19th Marine Expeditionary Unit, to the site, suddenly and suspiciously designated dust2. They were briefed that fourteen terrorists had broken through guard positions and were intent on destroying the chemical stashes. The Marines were given orders to fire on sight and to eliminate the bomb threat.

Twenty-four versus fourteen; a fair fight?

No.

They should have sent more.

* * *

"Come on, you piece of crap! Work, damnit, work!" John growled, trying futilely to unjam his MP5. After a few moments of swearing and frustration, he kicked it away, the submachine gun clattering across the stone floor. John froze; the noise would undoubtedly bring unwelcome company. He peeked out from his cover, a short stairwell, and nearly received buckshot in his face for his troubles. Yelping and stumbling backwards, John drew his P228. The shotgun roared again, pellets driving holes in the stairs. "Fuck this," John muttered before he stood up, snapping off four shots in quick succession. .357 SIG slugs hit the tango, blood suddenly blossoming from the terrorist's chest. 

The tango dropped to the floor, a Benelli M3 Pump Shotgun in his grasp. John fired one last shot at the prone body and cocked an ear for more unwelcome company. Satisfied that he was alone once more, he gave the body a kick that lifted it two feet into the air. John then unceremoniously turned the dead terrorist onto its back and took the shotgun from lifeless hands. Yet, despite his anger, John could not stop himself from wincing when he viewed the gaping holes in the corpse's chest. He slumped against the stairs and ran a hand through his black hair.

'_Just another ugly bastard_,' he repeated to himself, '_Just another one of those bastards that are still out there with AKs and itchy trigger fingers. Breathe, John, breathe._' He drew a deep breath, held it and let it go slowly.

Still tense, John nearly jumped when his radio crackled to life. "This is Fire Team Sierra requesting immediate assistance," a gruff voice reported. Gunfire could be heard in the background. "Does anyone copy? Over."

John clicked on his radio, "Roger that, Fire Team Sierra, this is Zulu-2. I hear you loud and clear, sir. Over."

"Where's the rest of your team? Over."

He paused for a moment before responding, "They're dead. Sir. Over."

"Have you seen anyone else, soldier? Over."

"Negative, sir."

The radio was quiet with the sole exception of gunfire, which seemed to get louder by the second. Finally, the gruff voice came back, "Zulu-2, get to bombsite B, double-time. The terrorists have a bomb. We'll hold out as long as we can. Over and out."

John stared at the radio. '_There are some things that "oh crap" just can't begin to cover…'

* * *

_

"Stop shining your stupid sniper rifle. We're not here to blind them, we're here to make sure they stay down."

The sniper looked up from his cleaning, frowning, "Ah, shut up. I gotta clean out the stupid sand." He looked back down to the SIG SG-550 in his lap, scrutinizing it carefully. "Maybe if you had covered me like you were supposed to, then maybe I wouldn't have dropped it in the fr-"

The scanner radio next to them buzzed to life, causing both the sniper and the spotter to jump. The latter leaned over turned it up to hear the last transmission: "Zulu-2, get to bombsite B, double-time. The terrorists have a bomb. We'll hold out as long as we can. Over and out."

An eyebrow rose at the order. "Zulu-2? I thought we got everyone else."

The sniper was no longer listening. His hands worked deftly, snapping in a fresh magazine and shouldering it. Black eyes stared down the scope of the SIG SG-550, watching the open pass. A slight shift to the side caught his attention. The spotter noticed it also and keyed his own radio, "Artemis, this is Headshot. We seemed to have missed one. Kesenai has him in his sights. Orders?"

The sniper's finger hovered near the trigger, the crosshairs of the scope on the Marine's back.

"Let him in."

Kesenai nearly pulled the trigger, having expected a totally different answer. He paused, watching the counter-terrorist cautiously make his way to site B. Headshot seemed almost as surprised as he was; he stared at his radio for a second in disbelief before responding, "Artemis, repeat that order."

Artemis did not seem to notice the hesitation. "Let him in."

With some reluctance, he responded, "Roger that. We'll monitor him. Headshot, out."

Kesenai gave the Marine one last glance before he disappeared behind the wooden double doors of the bombsite. He blew out a sigh and looked over his shoulder to meet his partner's gaze. "You heard him, Headshot. Wanna move up? Might get interesting."

Headshot smirked and gave a mock bow, "Sure, ladies first."

* * *

"You sure about this, Arty?" Dargon asked quietly, "We don't need a new guy, especially a Marine." 

Artemis grinned at him, "When haven't I been sure? And besides, what have I said about calling me Arty while we're working?" She jabbed at him lightly, her fist barely missing his shoulder as he leaned back slightly. Her smile dimmed slightly, "We might not need a new guy, but if this Marine can survive us and eight other terrorists, perhaps he's good enough to be one of us. Or lucky enough."

"Or maybe unlucky enough."

Artemis didn't bother refuting his statement.

The sound of a shotgun firing was followed immediately by a terrorist's death cry.

"Look's like he's here. Let's move out."

* * *

John felt grim satisfaction as he placed the barrel of the pump shotgun on the terrorist's chest and pulled the trigger. The body flew backwards, propelled by the force of the 12-guage shotgun. John sidestepped, taking cover behind the wooden double doors. Gunfire peppered where he had previously stood.

He drew a grenade from his belt and tossed it into the site without its pin. The flashbang bounced once and went off; a terrorist cried out, his eyes stinging from the bright magnesium flash. John pumped the shotgun once and jumped out. The blinded terrorist was on the floor, writhing, clawing at his eyes. The Marine aimed the shotgun and fired; the tango screamed incoherently as he died.

Another terrorist stepped out from behind a wooden box and fired an AK-47. The Kalashnikov rifle spat out three rounds. John felt a sudden lance of pain as one smacked wetly against his left shoulder, the others barely missing his head. He instinctively dove for cover behind a stack of green containers, nearly screaming out when his injured shoulder slammed into the boxes. He slumped to the floor, dizzy from the pain; his shoulder felt like it was on fire.

A combat boot hit him in the chest, his lungs suddenly empty. John gasped for air before looking up and noticing that the AK-47 was now in his face.

Without thinking, the Marine kicked up, his own combat boot connecting with the tango's crotch.

The terrorist's eyes went wide and he fell back without a sound. Two years of training ruled over the pain as John drew his P228 and pulled the trigger twice.

All John felt was the blood of his latest kill on his face before his vision went black.

* * *

"So that brings his kills to at least four?" 

"Yup, not bad for a Marine. They're untrained in counter-terrorism, you know. The U.S. has SEALs for that. Now, let's get him out of here before he bleeds out."

* * *

Author Notes: 

And we start a new story. Fun. Two things I hate about this chapter. One, it is way too short. Two, the beginning paragraph has too big of a perspective shift. Oh yeah, and it seems rushed. So that's three things I hate about this chapter. Oh well.

No, this is not a story you can join. So before you press that review button, think: do you really have anything worth saying now?

Kesenai, Headshot, and sYn, email me ASAP after you see this.

Hopefully, I'll have the next chapter up soon. Later.

**Dargon, Dragon's Outcast**


End file.
